


warm data

by scionblad



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Developing Relationship, Ensemble Cast, Game Spoilers, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-05 10:49:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12792984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scionblad/pseuds/scionblad
Summary: Goro Akechi was seventeen years old and fond of biking, high-class food, and bouldering.It felt a very mechanical way to get to know a person, like a checklist of the things that made them up.





	warm data

**Author's Note:**

> _A warm data body is a portrait, not a profile; when a warm data body is erased, the real body remains intact. Warm data is easiest to define in opposition to what it is not: warm data is the opposite of cold, hard facts. Warm data is subjective; it cannot be proved or disproved, and it can never be held against you in a court of law. However, warm data can only be collected voluntarily, not by force; the respondent always has a choice — whether to answer or not, which questions to answer, on what terms she will answer, and if her answers will be anonymous._ ([source](https://www.samdani.com.bd/mining-warm-data/))
> 
> alt title: akira wants to date goro but goro is apparently unsusceptible to his charms, the 10000th take
> 
> no edits, we die like men

Goro Akechi was seventeen years old and fond of biking, high-class food, and bouldering.

It felt a very mechanical way to get to know a person, like a checklist of the things that made them up. Akira liked observing and figuring out what made people tick. The checklist wasn’t much his speed. The knowledge left his mouth dry, like he wanted to drink more and see if he could start to take apart the perpetually composed Detective Prince.

Swiping a thumb absently up the website page, he sifted through what he knew of his other teammates. It was warm, heartful data. He seemed to feel their emotions as clearly as they did sometimes: anger, love, conviction, grief, pain.

The battery percentage changed from 85% to 84%. Goro Akechi seemed only to exist as a character smiling on the television.

He rolled over in bed and locked his phone, Morgana yelping briefly before rearranging his warm paws somewhere else on top of Akira’s blanket. “What are you doing?”

“Sorry,” said Akira absently. He spun his phone on top of his middle finger. Morgana started washing himself, watching Akira curiously with his big blue eyes.

“Something on your mind?”

“Not really,” he lied easily. Morgana seemed to sense not to really push it and buried his face in his paws. It wasn’t like Akira could even think about all of it in words. Rather, he thought of it in bright television studio lights, flashy casino signs, the pillars of energy that came when casting Kougaon. A hand on his knee in dark corners, the smell of something vaguely sweet and clean and comforting—shampoo, maybe, or fabric softener, though lacking the sharpness of artificiality.

He closed his eyes. A red mask with a long sharp _tengu_ nose. Clever and proud.

 

* * *

 

 

Goro Akechi was standing in line to Young Jemman off the access-way at Shibuya on Monday afternoon. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Akira walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. Akechi turned, tilted his head in mild surprise.

“What brings you here?”

“I was looking for you,” Akira said simply.

“How kind of you,” laughed Akechi. He didn’t seem as flattered as Yusuke or Haru at that response—Akira would have to try harder.

“I mean it,” Akira insisted. “I want to get to know you. Let’s spend some time together.”

“I am flattered,” said Akechi, with his pleasant smile. “But alas, I’ve work matters to attend to.”

There was something about the way Akechi smiled at him that didn’t sit well with Akira. It wasn’t that the smile was fake, or that Akechi’s overly amicable manner was irritable in its overly amicable manner, but it felt restrained in some odd way that felt dishonest.

There was a sense of trust in eyes of the others that he could quite plainly see, and Akira took care to hold the trust carefully in a place where it would not be corrupted or broken. It was important, both to them and to him. Not that Akechi also had to trust him in the same idealistic way as the others did, but it wouldn’t hurt to have it more than just a business transaction, even if he wasn’t totally sure what Akechi’s real intentions were.

They said quick farewells and Akira walked to the train. He felt utterly impetuous.

Akechi preferred milk in his coffee, and tended to favor a lighter roast that wasn’t as bitter or acidic. Usually he would wait a little for the drink to cool down, too. It was a little childlike, the way he would sometimes drink and then burn his tongue and then wait, looking a little longingly at the coffee. He didn't seem to like hot liquid very much. Actually, it was funny that Yusuke had been so bothered by the heat at the bathhouse when Goemon casted ice spells, but Akechi casted light and dark spells and who even knew how that affected bath temperature preferences.

He felt really stupid. Morgana looked at him with his huge blue eyes knowingly and then retreated back into the bag. He could probably hear Akira’s heart shaking in his ribs.

 

* * *

 

 

_Let me know when you’re free to meet up and go into the Palace. I don’t want to inconvenience you in any way._

Akechi replied almost immediately.

_Most of my television recordings happen during the morning, and I’m quite on top of my studies. You needn’t worry about my schedule._

Akira was about to type when there was another buzz.

_Besides, aren’t you in class right now? It would behoove you to keep up with school as well._

Morgana yawned. “What a troublesome guy.”

Akira flicked Morgana’s leg and tilted the phone screen away from his sight.

_It’s fine, my homeroom teacher is pretty relaxed about this sort of thing._

_She doesn’t sound like a very good homeroom teacher._

_It’s not like you know her at all._

_Fair enough,_ Akechi concedes. _But you should take care not to stick out too much in a bad way._

 _I’m top of the damn class,_ Akira wanted to type, but didn’t. Instead, he put his phone back in his pocket and tried to pay attention to Kawakami’s lecture.

During lunch break he pulled his phone out again, hoping for something to have popped up while he was busy doodling little black birds in his notebook. Nothing. Well, Mishima had sent him some info on a target of some interest, and there was the usual group chatter about pulling off the heist and getting things done. It was all understandable but Akira sometimes thought like they worried too much. The days spread out before him like a map. He knew when and where to go. They were fine.

His thumb hovered over one chat thread, grayed out to signify its “read” status, watching for a new message that wouldn't come. Akira hoped he was fine, at least.

With quick fingers he typed, _You aren’t the only one who can juggle school with work._

He put his phone down and tried to wait patiently, opening a book he’d borrowed from the library. It was about the heroic adventures of Robin Hood, and though the author wasn’t particularly dry about it, he still couldn’t concentrate.

He pulled out his phone again, staring intently at his recent messages.

Ann came into the room then, holding a plastic bag from a convenience store. She looked somewhat inquisitively at him, and then asked, like usual: “Are we meeting up today?”

A few more seconds, just to see whether it would change, darken and bolden before him with the excitement of something new from those black gloved fingers. “I haven't decided yet,” he said.

 

* * *

 

“Check.”

Hifumi looked up from the board, head tilted. Akira scratched the back of his head self-consciously.

“Uh,” he said. “I concede.”

“Hm,” she hummed half to herself. “Something seems on your mind.”

He didn’t say anything. More like he wasn’t sure how to say it.

“I’m tired, I guess,” he lied.

She put one hand up to her chin. “It might do to end things for tonight, then.”

She looked disappointed, in a way. Akira couldn’t blame her. He was looking for other things in the stone wall, in the altar, in the windows. Faces, maybe, or a memory of hair shining in gaudy lights, or someone to push him away from the brilliance of an incoming attack.

He must have been dreaming. Gor—Akechi had never done that with him over the course of their trek through Niijima’s Palace, so far, at least..

“Sorry,” he said to Hifumi.

She watched him with calculating eyes for a second, looking for where the pawns were placed through the lenses of his glasses, then leaned back a little bit against the pew. “It’s no matter. A break every once in a while is fine.”

There was something in the corner of his eye. He rubbed a knuckle there, behind his glasses, pushing them back into place when he was done. “Yeah.”

Afterimages of the church walls danced in his vision, and he blinked a few times. One of them looked kind of like a _tengu_ with a long straight nose. There was something sharp and elegant about tengu noses, like a prince’s rapier flashing as it pierced through armor, but it also made him feel uneasy. Intimidated, even.

The back of his neck ached. Hunched over too many nights studying or making lock picks or playing Star Forneus, probably. The pew wasn’t very comfortable either, hard wood that didn’t support your back in a pleasing way—well, that might have been the point, so people would stay awake for all the sermons and stories, but Akira thought it wouldn’t have been pleasant.

“You know,” Hifumi said suddenly. “If you want to… share your troubles with me, I would be more than happy to hear you out.”

Akira looked up. Her eyes averted his, and her hands were placed timidly in her lap. He decided to be gentle.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m not really sure how to go about it, though.”

She nodded. “That does happen, sometimes. When thoughts all crash together and you can’t focus as clearly as you’d like to.”

“Poetic.”

Hifumi blushed slightly. “Don’t tease me, please.” There was a brief pause. “If you can’t talk about it, it might be nice to talk about something else entirely, then.”

“Okay, uh…” He fiddled with his hair. “I dunno…”

“You seemed to be distracted by the windows near the altar,” she said.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“They are quite beautiful,” Hifumi mused. “I can’t say I know much about art or anything, but the crucifixion always looks so… elegant, even when it’s a form of execution.”

He vaguely remembered learning something about it in social studies or history. It seemed to mirror the sort of thing they all tried to do with their heists, actually: spreading good values and beliefs, or something, and then taking the brunt of it when—okay, so they weren’t entirely sure on what happened with Okumura that one time, but they’d been betrayed by the public in a way. And Jesus was betrayed by… Judas. And because of that he was crucified.

And Akira was the leader, and the captain went down with the ship.

His neck kept aching. He rubbed it absently. Hifumi kept directing the conversation to various things, but he couldn’t remember what she was saying or focus on her voice. She looked disappointed, and he felt bad, but some days he really couldn’t help it.

He apologized, she accepted rather hesitantly, and they parted ways. When he got home, he fell asleep and had a strange dream about durian-eating _tengu_ and that was that.

 

* * *

 

 

“Have you ever had durian?” Akira asked.

“No,” said Makoto, who was driving. She swerved around a Shadow. Morgana broke open a door.

“Yeah,” said Ryuji. “It’s nasty as shit.”

“Despite its bad smell, it is quite delicious when paired with the right foods,” Akechi said.

He was sitting right behind the driver’s seat with his arms crossed, sandwiched between the door and Futaba. Akira looked over his shoulder to look at him.

“How can they taste good if they don’t smell good?” asked Ann.

“The texture is quite creamy, for one,” said Akechi. “And the flavor is more complex than fruits like apples or oranges. It often contains savory and sour notes as well as sweet.”

“How fascinating,” said Yusuke.

“There are many types of durian as well, so the flavor of the fruit can change rather drastically from variety to variety,” continued Akechi.

“Encyclopedia,” Futaba muttered to herself.

“And, surprisingly…” Akechi put a hand to his chin, his eyes finding Akira’s. “In some parts of the world they’re regarded as aphrodisiacs. There’s a Javanese saying that goes something like ‘the durian falls and the sarong comes up.’”

“Wow,” said Haru.

“What the heck? Gross,” said Ryuji.

Akira combed a few fingers through his bangs to hide his racing heart.

“How do you know so much?” asked Makoto a little warily. She turned a corner and accelerated. Akira looked down at her right foot with concern.

“It’s a hobby of sorts, to talk about different kinds of food, I suppose,” Akechi said. “I myself go to a variety of establishments to sample different kinds of food, and to explore what sorts of things might contribute to a food’s flavor and appearance.”

Ryuji scratched the back of his head. “Aren’t those called like, foodies or somethin’?”

“Foodie?” Akechi nodded slowly to himself. “I suppose so, but I’ll admit I haven’t thought of myself as one.”

He looked at Akira again, searching. Akira shrugged as if to say, _it’s up to you._ He tried to imagine Akechi eating at very expensive places, and it worked, in a way, but there was a sense of performance about the whole thing.

Warm data. Akira wanted warm data. _Akechi likes eating at high-class restaurants to sample the food and explore what sorts of things might contribute to the flavor and appearance._ Even the wording of that sounded like an encyclopedia article.

Makoto swerved away from another Shadow, but she was too slow, and the Shadow managed to get the ambush in. They scrambled out of the car, Haru got ready to summon her Persona, and Akira forgot everything after that.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why durian?” asked Akechi as the others left LeBlanc to go home.

“What?”

“Durian,” said Akechi. “Why did you ask about it?”

“Oh,” Akira said. “Was just curious.”

Akechi hung back as Futaba hopped down the stairs, trailing after the rest of the crew. He seemed to have something in mind to say to Akira.

Morgana seemed to notice, too. He looked at Akira, tail twitching, flicked his ears as if to say, let me know, then ran downstairs. He was awfully quiet lately, Akira thought, sitting on the bed. Maybe he had a lot on his mind with regards to the plan.

Akechi stood somewhat awkwardly in front of him, hand on chin, thinking. Akira watched.

“You can sit if you want,” he said. “My home is your home, all of that.”

Akechi looked surprised. “Oh,” he said. “That’s really not necessary.”

“Up to you,” Akira said, shrugging. He yawned and lay down, hands behind his head. “Let me know if you want coffee or something.”

There was a brief silence, then Akechi moved to sit down in the chair beside the bed that Akira used to reach the rafters.

Akira closed his eyes, saw a chance.

“You know,” he said casually. “You mention you do detective work and stuff, but what exactly do you do?”

“What do I do?” Akechi echoed. He crossed his legs and fixed his eyes on the old TV across the room. “Well, I usually go over evidence that’s been collected to see if I can observe any connections or inconsistencies. Sometimes I go to crime scenes to inspect evidence there. And I do a bit of profiling as well, which comes mostly with studying evidence.”

“Profiling, huh?” Akira sat up and leaned against the wall so he could look at Akechi. “Like, how we go and learn about a person so we can access their Palace?”

“Yes, it’s similar to that,” said Akechi. “I personally find it rather enjoyable to do, but I’m sure others might think this topic quite boring.”

“It’s not boring,” said Akira, moving over the bed so he was sitting closer to Akechi. “If it matters to you, then it matters to me, too.”

Akechi tore his eyes from the TV to look at Akira, who stared back.

“Profile me,” said Akira.

He hoped Akechi couldn’t hear his heart pounding. The intensity between their gazes hung like a stretched rubber band, ready to snap back and sting both their fingers. Akechi’s eyes seemed to probe, searching for something solid to hold onto. _I’m here,_ Akira thought. _I’m right here._

“All right,” Akechi said, after a pause. He shifted the chair around so he was facing Akira on the bed. “Akira Kurusu. Sixteen years of age. You write your given name with the kanji for ‘dawn’ or ‘daybreak.’ You come from the Kanagawa prefecture and came to Tokyo after being declared guilty for charges of assault, and currently attend Shujin Academy in Aoyama-Itchome.”

Cold data. Cold data. Akira pushed his glasses up his nose. “That’s not interesting.”

“Pardon?”

“That’s not interesting,” he repeated, leaning closer. “Like, that’s me, but that’s not really me. C’mon. You’ve spent some time around me, haven’t you? Surely you know more than just like, facts anyone could figure out through records and files.”

Akechi met his gaze almost fiercely. “I see. Well then.”

He lowered his chin so that he was looking at Akira almost through his long, dark eyelashes. “You are labeled a delinquent, but you regularly get the top score in your school exams, suggesting your history of such a label is brief. You regularly insert yourself into the business of others, with intentions of helping them out of perceived situations of helplessness. And sometimes you act without regard to your own safety, confident you are in your connection to people and in your own physical and mental ability. Without a doubt”—Akechi closed his eyes and put a finger to his chin—“you are a skilled and competent model of a gentleman thief.”

Akira nodded slowly. “Very interesting,” he said. Then, with a smirk: “Is that how you really see me, Mr. Detective Prince?”

Akechi opened his eyes again. “Not in particular,” he said. “I am simply stating patterns of behavior that I have observed, though I’m well aware that I cannot ever entirely remove my personal bias from anything I say or do.”

“A personal bias, huh,” said Akira. “Do I intrigue you that much?”

“The nature of the Phantom Thieves case certainly lends itself to greater interest than other cases I have worked on,” said Akechi evenly. “So much so that—”

He looked away as if he remembered something suddenly. Akira drew back a little. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

The corners of Akechi’s mouth tightened. “Nothing.”

They stayed like that for a minute, Akechi’s mouth hardening and softening, his eyes blinking erratically, as if he was working through a difficult logic problem that they always had in newspapers. Akira watched, curious, and a part of his heart tugged towards concerned.

Then, after a bit, Akechi spoke. “I think I’d like a cup of coffee,” he said quietly, the pleasantness back in his voice. The façade had returned. Akira didn’t like that much. With everyone else it felt like that, an equal partnership—Yusuke copied skill cards and Makoto analyzed Shadows and Iwai and Tae gave him discounts and in return he helped them with whatever endeavors they recruited him to do. It was all very fair, for the most part.

Didn’t Akechi say he’d teach him to make deductions? Didn’t Akechi say he felt like he could tell him anything during their conversations? They’d made a deal, sure, but Akira felt like he was getting the short end of the stick.

There wasn’t anyone in LeBlanc at this late of an hour so Akira took it upon himself to set about boiling the water and grinding the beans, taking care to do Sojiro’s special house blend. Akechi leaned on an elbow on the counter and watched carefully.

“You doing okay?” asked Akira.

The detective prince raised an eyebrow. “Who wants to know?”

“A team leader, asking his team member,” said Akira. “Fitting your profile of, ‘insert yourself into the business of others, with intentions of helping them’ deal.”

Akechi let out a brief huff of a laugh. “Perhaps. Well. Admittedly, lately, I’ve been finding myself with little time to eat properly, I guess. Palace and schoolwork and detective work take up a lot of time and energy that I don’t cook much.”

“Want something to eat then? I make a mean curry.”

“No, that’s fine. You’re lucky to have Sakura-san make curry for you, though.”

“Are you kidding? I make my own food.”

The expression in Akechi’s eyes shifted, despite Akira’s attempts at a light joke. “Ah,” he said, and nothing else. His eyes were cast elsewhere, towards the _Sayuri_ painting by the door. Akira studied him carefully, sorting out his words in his brain with a measure of delicacy.

“So you live by yourself? That’s rough.”

“It’s not so bad,” said Akechi absently. “I make enough money from my detective work and television appearances to get by. My landlady is quite nice.”

“So’s my landlord,” said Akira, pouring the water gently like Sojiro showed him, in slow circles. “He doesn’t have to be nice to me, but he is, mostly.”

Akechi didn’t say anything, but his mouth had relaxed to a slight downward curve, one that might have been mistaken for a resting face.

Akira knew that look. Maybe once he’d worn it himself, back in the spring rains and in a sea of strange faces. Something in his chest tugged at the sight of it on Goro’s face.

“You know, maybe I’ve told you before, but…” He shrugged and poured the coffee into a mug. “You’re always welcome here, you know.”

He set the coffee on the counter, and for a few minutes it sat untouched, the steam rising unhurriedly from the cup. Goro looked at it with a careful expression on his face. Akira thought maybe he could hear the wheels turning inside the detective prince’s brilliant keen brain, adding and erasing in the profile he’d labeled _Kurusu Akira,_ written with the kanji for “dawn.”

After a moment, Akechi took the cup with a single, steady gloved hand. “I know,” was all he said.

He drank in silence, and when he left, Akira closed up the cafe and went up the wooden stairs to his attic slowly, thinking about the dark color of Akechi Goro’s eyes.  


* * *

 

 

On Sunday, they went into Palace, and Akechi stood away from them when they grouped in the safe room, like he always did. In a quiet moment, Akira studied him, but the detective prince remained coolly pristine under his princely guise.

Aimlessly, he wandered over to Yusuke, who’d brought a sketchpad with him and was drawing in it, his soft dark pencil skipping over the paper gracefully. The marks had created a likeness, one Akira knew quite well.

“Akechi,” he murmured, without really thinking.

Yusuke looked up, a little surprised. “Ah, Akira,” he said. “Forgive me; I always feel restless when I go to the other world…”

“It’s fine,” said Akira. “It happens. Nice drawing, by the way.”

“Thank you,” said Yusuke, looking back at it, tapping the end of his pencil on the paper. “I will admit, I didn’t think too hard on it, but I do hold true that art does not always require conscious thought to make.”

Whatever Yusuke’s subconsciousness had decided to put in his sketch of Akechi Goro, it was strikingly curious. Akechi’s face was posed slightly turned away, eyelids slightly lowered, his small mouth relaxed in a pleasant curve, and it made for a pretty image, but something about it felt more than just pretty. He couldn’t tell just by looking at the tones or the lines or the textures, but something about the hand which made the lines and Yusuke’s keen observant eye revealed a certain kind of… vulnerability in Akechi that he felt drawn to. It took his breath away.

“It’s really good,” said Akira. “You should be proud.”

Yusuke gave him a warm look. In the corner Akechi turned his head away, as if he’d been listening and imagining what the drawing looked like. Akira wished with a smattering of awe and jealousy combined that he’d been able to put this certain quality on a paper, but, watching Akechi scratch his chin subtly from his isolated corner, deep in apparent thought, it really wasn’t his place to record things like that.

The fox thief was still looking at his sketch, lost in his own strange thoughts. Akira put his chin on his hand.

“If you don’t mind,” he said. “Do you think I could keep it?”

Yusuke made a small noise of surprise. “Well, I don’t see a reason why you can’t,” he said after a moment. “I have no particular attachment to this anyway.”

He unceremoniously ripped the page out of the book and handed it to Akira, watching Akira handle the sheet of paper with some care before speaking again.

“It’s funny,” he said in a low voice. “How you two are such… complements to each other.”

Akira tilted his head in an unspoken agreement. It seemed like Yusuke knew, or could tell in his strange way of his, that this Akechi, _this_ one, was important, with shining light hair and healthy complexion, unblemished princely guise delicate. The light to Akira’s shadow. It sounded unbearably cliché in his head, but he couldn’t help thinking it was some poetic expression of fate. At least Yusuke didn’t seem to have trouble thinking about it that way, though that was maybe just how Yusuke thought in general. Art had the luxury of thinking in poetic ways and being able to get away with it.

Real life was more complicated than that. The Akechi on the paper had a certain darkness to it, maybe in his eyes or in the dark line of his mouth or the arch of his eyebrows. He’d seen it before, when it was just the both of them, alone, in Leblanc.

Warm data. It had been in plain sight all along. He touched a finger lightly to the shaded cheek of Akechi’s face before tucking the paper away inside his coat.

“Thank you,” he said to Yusuke, then to the rest of them: “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Kawakami’s back massages were a blessing after going into Metaverse and coming out tired and sore, and Akira felt refreshed enough to work an evening shift at the convenience store in Shibuya. It was tedious enough that his brain could rest after whirling with calculations and puzzle-solving in the Palace, and his coworker was pleasant enough that he could lay back and enjoy the company under flickering fluorescent lights.

His shift ended at nine-thirty, and he had just changed out of the convenience store uniform when he saw a hooded figure enter. Something about the way the figure strode in felt familiar, though the person was wearing a medical mask and black glasses with a faint tortoiseshell pattern. He didn’t know anyone who wore glasses like that, but the carefully curated fashion seemed to ping something in Akira’s memory.

He looked through his Third Eye. It was exactly who he thought it was.

The person loitered a bit in front of the bento section, looking through the plastic bowls of microwavable rice meals. Akira put one hand in his pocket and with the other made a shoo gesture to Morgana in the window. It was hard to tell with cat faces, but he looked somewhat offended. Akira felt a little sorry, but he spent all day all night with Morgana, and not nearly enough time doing anything else.

“Excuse me,” he said, walking into the person, doing his best to be as casual as he could while walking into a person.

“S-sorry,” said the hooded figure, turning to look at them, and then freezing.

“What’s with the mask, Akechi?” said Akira in a low voice. “Got a cold?”

The detective prince in disguise said nothing, just adjusted his mask a little so it sat a little higher on the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t afford to get sick,” Akechi said.

Akira looked at him, past the glasses and mask and hood. “You don’t look so good.”

It wasn’t so much a physical thing more than a tired, haggard look in Akechi’s eyes, the color of dried blood. Like he’d seen and done things unworthy of thinking over, of justifying. Seen and done things alone, and bore the weight of those, alone.

Akira could hear Morgana’s voice in his head, distrusting, but ignored it. He jerked his head at the plastic container of yakisoba in Akechi’s hand. “Let me pay for that.”

“What?” Akechi frowned at him. “No.”

“Let me,” he insisted. “I just got my paycheck.”

He paid for the yakisoba. They walked to the station and Akechi lingered.

“Thanks,” he said.

Akira watched him. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah,” said Akechi. He looked away saying that, his eyelids drooping. “See you.”

He turned and started heading into the station. The casual tone didn't feel right. Akira checked his phone for the time. Not that late.

Akechi turned for the train heading north towards Shinjuku. Akira followed him. When the train arrived, he stood close enough that he could catch that soft laundry scent off of Akechi's hoodie, and stayed that way until they got to Yoyogi.

Neither of them spoke until they were walking through residential buildings. Akechi looked at Akira.

“You didn’t have to accompany me home all the way like this.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday. I’ll be fine.”

Akechi grimaced, but didn’t slow his pace. Then, after a minute of walking: “Please go home.”

“No,” said Akira firmly.

Akechi stopped to look at him, his mouth set in a frustrated line that was almost certainly unattractive for television talk shows. “Please leave.”

“No,” Akira repeated.

“It’s late and the last trains are leaving soon.”

“I know that.”

Akechi wasn’t honestly, in Akira’s view, in a place to be concerned about other people, seeing how he never let anyone give two shits about him. Really, really, it was all about himself. Protecting himself, letting the sharp tengu beak keep everyone at a distance.

They were at the door now. Akechi took out his keys and then stopped to look at him. Akira stared back.

“Why won’t you leave?” Akechi asked, half to himself.

Akira just put his hands in his pockets. “Let’s go inside,” he said.

Neither of them moved. Then, slowly, Akechi unlocked the door into the dark apartment.

It was small, but the main living space nice enough to have a Western-style bed and small tables for books and files and Akechi’s silver briefcase with his laptop computer. Around the corner was a kitchen mostly untouched and a bathroom mostly unsoiled.

Akechi set the plastic bag with the yakisoba down on an empty space on the table, and all but collapsed onto his bed, closing his eyes. Still watching him closely, Akira sat down on the opposite side of the table.

They said nothing for a moment. The air was cold and Akechi reached over to turn on the heater, his eyes still closed. For a while, the humming of warmth spreading through the room filled the silence.

Akira looked at the unopened yakisoba container. “Are you going to eat?” he asked.

No answer. Akechi opened his eyes to look at him.

“There’s nothing for you here,” he said to Akira, almost defensively.

“You’re here,” said Akira.

“You don’t need me outside of this deal we’ve struck,” said Akechi. “I taught you how to do deductions, I’m helping you take Sae-san’s treasure, there’s nothing else.”

He looked away from Akira, up at the ceiling. They stayed like that, while Akira tried to arrange words in his mouth. Gentle, honest words. It was taking all of his patience to not be sharp and biting and _let me in, damn it, I care about you_.

“I’m just checking in on you,” Akira said finally. “Just like I do with everyone.”

“Thank you, but I don’t need it.” Akechi sighed. “I’ve never needed it.”

He seemed to want more. Not just beyond his unhappy lot, but a place as lofty as the stars. It struck a pitiable figure. Unwelcome everywhere, passed from foster home to foster home, perpetually lonely. A lonely prince with a mask. Even Robin Hood, as far as Akira knew, had companions he enacted his shenanigans with.

“You don’t have to be alone,” Akira said quietly. “You have us, after all.”

Something caught in Akechi’s throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He struggled a moment with it, before speaking again.

“I’m fine.”

The tengu beak that kept Akira at a distance flashed again. He pushed it aside, pressing against the glass wall that protected Goro Akechi’s heart, looking with a blend of curiosity and longing, a dash of frustration. _I’m here. I’m right here_.

“It’s okay,” Akira tried again. “It must be hard. I’m here for you.”

Akechi’s face hardened like he was trying to hide what he was thinking. "Don't talk like you know what it feels like."

He was sitting up now. Actually, he was really kind of transparent―too still a stance, too placid a tone, too controlled a sentence. The words didn't even make sense. But it all rolled off him in waves, the hostility, like a wounded dog.

Akira said nothing. He didn’t need to. Akechi's face shifted again, like a new string of thought had been plucked inside that clever detective brain of his. For a detective prince, he was certainly and annoyingly obtuse at times.

His eyes flickered away, and Akira saw a slow tear sliding across that pretty face.

Neither of them moved. Then, after a long stretching second, "I had to help myself."

Akira watched Akechi's hands trembling.

"I had to help myself," Akechi said again. "You can't rely... on someone, or anyone, when they just... don't give a shit.”

Akechi speaking so crassly was refreshing. Those nice carefully curated words dressed all pretty for the television show were all that was ever shown to the world. Akira let the hard rawness of Akechi’s honesty lie on the cold floor where he could admire them.

Neither of them spoke. Akechi took off his face mask methodically and yanked his beanie off. He did nothing about the darker spots on his clothes where water had dripped off his nose.

Finally, after a longer silence, Akira said, “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” replied Akechi, his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall under Akira’s chin.

“It’s hard,” said Akira. Then, more softly: “I know. I really do.” He took off his glasses.

Akechi moved his eyes from the spot on the wall to meet Akira’s for a second.

“Let me make you some coffee,” said Akira.

The detective prince slouched suddenly, like the stiff string of expectation that pulled his spine up had given out. He looked utterly different like this. Akira set about the kitchen looking for beans to grind or coffee mix to put in a machine.

Then, so quietly the noise of the coffee machine almost drowned it out: “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of "warm data" used in this fic is inspired by a project conducted in 2004 by Mariam Ghani and Chitra Ganesh, who were more concerned with more political concepts of data-gathering, surveillance, and systematic disappearance/erasure in post-9/11 United States, but I became rather enamored by the concept of understanding another person through the ideas they propositioned. Admittedly it probably got a bit bastardized for my own personal use, but if you'd like to know more about the project [there's a great interview written about it](http://rhizome.org/editorial/2017/nov/03/warm-data/) and [there's documentation of what they collected](https://anthology.rhizome.org/how-do-you-see-the-disappeared-a-warm-database).


End file.
